Tuesday, July 28, 2015

While the rest of the world frolics in the summer sun, my golf game exists in a state of hibernation. Actually there's a word for hibernation in the summer: estivation. Whatever. Subsisting on a meager diet of range balls, doled out in sad little portions, I conserve energy and lie in wait for the temperature to drop below 40ºF, at which time I'll come to life again. But just so I don't completely lose touch with the world of organized golf, I will make a grudging visit to a course, kind of like a half-hearted Protestant dragging his ass to church on Easter or Christmas.

Thursday, July 9, 2015

I have been wandering, exploring the various planes of existence, both high and low. I am adrift in three-dimensional space, searching for a (swing) path that will ultimately lead me home.

It is lonely and desolate out here in space. Carding 18-hole scores is something from a past life. Now, I am an apparition drifting from abstract theory to abstract theory, no golf course to call home.

Recently I got a text from the real world. It was my friend Arnold asking me to play some pre-holiday golf. I said no at first, because I am in the middle of trying to change my perception of the golf swing and probably would represent a hazard to others on a golf course. But he begged and pleaded, so I caved.